


They Who Refused To Surrender

by GrandDukeForever



Series: They Came Home Warriors [1]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Military Homophobia, Not Beta Read, Romance, Tearjerker, Torture, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrandDukeForever/pseuds/GrandDukeForever
Summary: So concentrated was he, searching the face of each and every soldier who passed by, desperate for the slightest glimpse of that familiar brown bomber jacket, that Collins did not notice he was being spoken to until he felt the squeeze of a hand on his shoulder.  Turning his head, Collins recognized the one addressing him as the civilian captain of the small vessel that had saved him from his near drowning.  He couldn't remember his name, or perhaps they hadn't really introduced themselves.  Collins didn't remember, nor did he think it much mattered."Sorry," he said.  "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that.""That's all right, son," the man replied.  "I said is there someone you are looking for?"Collins nodded.  "My mate," he said, returning his focus to the crowd of people.  "He ran out of fuel.  He should have landed on shore."He didn't notice the man's son, the blonde—Collins didn't know his name either—say something to his father.  He only heard the reply."These men have sacrificed greatly, son," the man said.  "It is not for us to judge."





	1. Act I: The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally got it together, it was like wildfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where I give them first names. This movie left me speechless. Just took my breath away. Also, I could be alone in my feeling this way, but I felt a lot of chemistry between Collins and Farrier, and so this fic was born. Couldn't help myself. And, while I've done some research, there's bound to be tons of inaccuracies. Sorry. Hope this is still an enjoyable read, regardless. (By the way, sorry if I got the date wrong for when the movie was set—couldn't for the life of me remember when in the evacuation period it was from the movie. If someone could let me know, I'd greatly appreciate it so I can fix it.)
> 
> Oh, and for those wondering if my other fics still left in progress are completely abandoned at this point—no. I will finish them. Eventually.

By the time Collins first met Farrier, the man was already something of a living legend.  He was known in the ranks as "The King's Ace," a moniker given to him for his excellent marksmanship, maneuvering capabilities, and fearlessness in combat. 

Farrier had learned to fly from his father, John Harrison Farrier, in 1928, when he was sixteen and his father had been granted several days of leave, which the pair had treasured immensely.  John Farrier, or "Harry," as he was often fondly known, had proudly served as a member of the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War, and then later as a  Royal Air Force pilot after the RFC merged with the Royal Naval Air Service in 1918.  Born in 1890, Farrier's father served his 40/18 point permanent commission from 1914 until 1932, and would live to see 1979.

His son would follow in his footsteps, having fallen in love with flying in his youth.  He would later enlist in September of 1935, exactly four years before France and Britain would declare war against Germany, and three years before he'd first meet Collins.  Aged twenty-three then, he quickly became revered as a force to be reckoned with, showing superiority in his skills compared to his comrades during their 24-week training.  His ability to adapt to any situation, and the way he seemed to be able to read others while in the air was well-noted even by his superiors.  Now the year being 1938, Farrier was now twenty-six.

Collins, on the other hand, was a bright-eyed, nineteen year old rookie who had enlisted several months before the British became officially involved in the War.  His age was nothing unusual for the time; pilots ranged anywhere from eighteen to just over thirty.  The youngest among the ranks were too young to vote at that time—this policy would remain this way until 1969—and yet they were considered old enough to lay down their lives for King and Country.  Prior to his enlistment, Collins had only dreamed of flying.  Now he was before Farrier, who was seven years his senior, and whom Collins had already decided he aspired to be more like, after hearing all about him during his training period.  They had run into each other whilst traversing the same hall.

There was an air about the older pilot, to be sure.  Collins immediately noted the man's light brown hair that would sometimes appear to have hints of blonde in the light, and his blue-green eyes, which he would later come to learn were not too unlike his own in the way they changed according to mood.  There was a swagger about Farrier to, in the way he stood, exuding both confidence and a casual sort of calm.  Collins could hardly look away, not that he wanted to.

Nervously, he held out a hand, making to introduce himself.  "James Earl Collins," Collins said, not knowing why his stomach felt as if it were flipping in somersaults when the other man accepted his hand and shook it.  "A pleasure to finally meet you, sir."

"Farrier," Farrier said with a curt nod.  "William Fitzhugh.  And no need to address me so formally.  _Surely_ I'm not that much older than you."

"How shall I address you, then?" Collins asked.  "William?  Will?  Willy?  Or perhaps you prefer to go by Bill...Billy?  Oh, and I'm nineteen."

He'd sounded gradually more uncertain with each variation of the man's first name he tried, partly because none of them seemed to quite roll off the tongue, but mostly due to the way Farrier's brows seemed to crease together more with each attempt Collins made.  Farrier eventually shook his head.

"What?  No.  Heavens, no," he said.  "None of those—just...why don't we address each other by our family names, yes?  You're Collins, and I'm Farrier."

"...right, then," Collins said, trying not to deflate with disappointment.  "Farrier."

Farrier nodded.  "And I was right," he said.  "Not much older than you."

Collins rocked slightly on his heels.  "May I ask...?"

"I've seven years on you," said Farrier.

"Ah..." Collins said, quickly doing the math and then nodding, wearing a small smile.  

Apparently, at that point, the conversation was over for Farrier.  "Well," he said, giving Collins another curt nod.  "I suppose I'll see you around, then."

The brusqueness of the other man's farewell took Collins rather by surprise.  "But wait!" he called, turning on his heels to face the direction where the other man had gone.

Farrier either didn't hear or chose to ignore Collins, because he did not turn around when the younger man called.  Disappointed, Collins slumped his shoulders, though he'd already decided right then and there that he would not be so easily deterred.

* * *

The next time they met, it would be for target practice.  Collins was rather pleased to learn that it would be Farrier piloting the target tug. 

"I'll be sure to give you a run for your money," Collins said brightly with a smile.

Farrier's expression was unreadable, though his lips might have had the faintest twitch to them; Collins couldn't be sure.  "Hm," was all the other man said before moving to load himself into the cockpit.

Another pilot might have found Farrier to be rude and stand-offish.  Collins, on the other hand, interpreted Farrier's actions as a challenge of sorts.

"... _right_ ," he said, holding a fist and waving it down once.  "Game on, then."

He hurried to his own plane, which had been loaded with paint pellets.  He went through the preflight check, hands trembling a bit in anticipation; he was eager to impress the other man with his skills.  Within minutes, it was takeoff, and both men were quickly airborne.

Collins had heard of Farrier's talent in the skies, but he had never actually _seen_ it for himself until then, and he was most certainly impressed.  Each time he thought he thought he had Farrier right where he wanted him and prepared to launch the pellets, the other man seemed to know exactly when he was about to make his move, and zip out of the way.  Eventually, Collins felt he had no choice but to take several shots in the dark, so to speak.  Even if his hits wouldn't land, he'd be damned if he didn't at least _try_.

"Come _on_...!" he grumbled at himself in frustration when he had let loose another barrage of shots, all of them seeming to miss.

Sweat dripped from his brow.  Suddenly, the speakers in his ear seemed to crackle to life, and the almost breathy sound of chuckling came through. 

 _"What's this, then?"_ said a voice, clearly belonging to Farrier.  They'd barely exchanged words prior to this point, but Collins had already committed the sound of the other man's gruff cadence to memory.  _"I thought you were going to provide me with a proper challenge."_

Collins didn't know what floored him more—the fact that Farrier was speaking to him, or knowing that the other man was _laughing_.  Up until then, Farrier hadn't shown so much as a _pulse_.  With a bit of nervous energy, Collins reached for his face mask and fit it over his mouth, so he could speak into his radio with it. 

"Hang onto your britches, _old man_ ," he taunted, perhaps a bit flippantly.  "I'm merely just getting started."

More light laughter.  Collins' heart was fluttering and performing back flips.

 _"Oh, is that so?"_ Farrier replied.  _"Well?  On with it, then."_

Collins' lips curved into a small grin.  "With pleasure," he said before his eyes narrowed in renewed concentration, a second wind rushing through him as he honed in on Farrier's tail.  

There were several more failed attempts, but it wasn't all for naught.  In the time where he might have appeared to be doing nothing, Collins spent time studying Farrier.  The other man was, indeed, a superior pilot.  There were not necessarily patterns to his flight trajectory, but Collins would not have made it this far if he didn't have a keen eye for details.  What Farrier seemed to lack in flight routines, Collins noticed that the man did have the subtlest of _tells_. 

It took a bit of quiet trial and error, but while firing a few throwaway shots, Collins was able to deduce just when the other man might turn; whether the other man planned to come at him from behind.  Once Collins thought he had it, he chuckled to himself and readied his next maneuver.

"Oh, I've got you in my sights now," Collins muttered under his breath, the tip of his tongue peeking through his lips and the point of it upward.  "Take _this_...!"

He opened fire.  He could have sworn at least one of the pellets had landed, but he couldn't be sure—despite his best efforts, Farrier did not at all disappoint.  He still managed to duck away, seemingly in the nick of time.  Collins' ears were soon filled with the sound of Farrier's impressed whistle.

 _"Well, I'm a man enough to admit—that sure was a close one there, mate,"_ Farrier said, and Collins' heart felt like it was doing cartwheels at the sound of the older man's laugh.  _"How's your fuel?"_

Collins checked.  "About twenty gallons," he said.

_"I'd say that's fair enough for a landing, now, wouldn't you?"_

Collins nodded at first, and then remembered that the other man would need to hear him.  He spoke into his mask again.

"Yes, of course," he said. 

 _"Right, then,"_ said Farrier.  _"Here I go."_

"Cheers," Collins replied, watching as Farrier began to descend.

He followed suit several minutes later.  He approached the other man just as the drogue was being removed from Farrier's plane.

"Well I'll be," one of Farrier's comrades, supposedly, whistled.  "The boy managed to land a solid five rounds."

Collins would have beamed with pride, but he was preoccupied with anticipation of Farrier's reaction.  The other man's expression was, once again, unreadable.

"Hm," Farrier said simply, sparing Collins only the briefest of glances and a slight nod that came off neutral at best, as he passed by the both of them.

Farrier's colleague called after him.  "Well?!  Aren't you going to say anything to the boy, mate?"

Farrier did not so much as give his colleague a backwards glance.  Instead, he simply shouted back.

_"Sod off, Martin!"_

* * *

That had been that, it seemed, until the next time Collins was called for target practice.  To his surprise, he learned that Farrier had made a request for him.

Collins approached the other man, just before their flight.  "Didn't think you were all that interested in me," he said.

He hadn't yet learned to read the other man well enough then, and therefore did not notice the way Farrier froze, ever so slightly in his movements.  "...what?" the other man asked, a bit carefully, his expression seemingly guarded.

Collins misinterpreted this entirely.  "As a flight partner," he clarified, mildly wondering why it was that it seemed the other man appeared to visibly relax, the tension he hadn't noticed before leaving Farrier's features. 

" _Ah_ ," the older man replied, a half-smile forming on his lips.  "Well...you _did_ manage to land a couple rounds on me the last time."

Collins couldn't help a little grin.  "It was more like five, I recall," he said dryly, but his eyes twinkled with amusement.

Farrier chuckled quietly.  "Beginner's luck, I'm sure," he said, shaking his head.  "Though...I suppose I'll admit to you perhaps having left quite a bit of an impression on me."

The blonde could have crowed.  Fortunately for him, he was able to keep it together.

"Well, I suppose I've been called here for a rematch, then?" Collins asked.

Farrier gave a slight one-shoulder shrug.  "Perhaps...in a way."

"Well, if you ladies are quite finished flirting, can we get a move on here?  We're wasting precious daylight!"

Farrier glanced in the direction of the voice and frowned.  "Oh, sod off, Martin!  Why are you here, anyhow?  Weren't you assigned to tasks elsewhere, for today?"

"What?  And miss the spectacle?" the man named Martin replied.  "Like I would!"

Collins blinked and turned, only just then noticing that they had a small crowd of spectators that day.  He turned to look back at Farrier, whom he heard chuckle quietly in amusement, and quirked a brow in question.

"It seems we've a bit of an audience today," Farrier said, stating the obvious.

"I can see that," Collins said in a mildly bewildered tone.  "The question is, why?"

Farrier laughed.  "Well, they're here to see you, of course," he said.  "Ol' Martin's been running his mouth since our last bout, and now people are here to see this rookie pilot whose supposedly 'bested' the King's Ace of the RAF."

Collins' lips twitched slightly upward at the corners.  "Well," he said.  "Wouldn't you say that I did?"

Farrier snorted softly at this.  "Nay," he said, shaking his head slightly.  "That was merely beginner's luck, as I said."

Collins would take that, he supposed, and tilted up his chin.  "Well, prepare to be proven wrong again," he said.

His lips parted slightly in surprise when he swore the other man winked at him, though Collins couldn't be sure; it had happened so fast.  "Catch me if you can, Stan."

Collins didn't know why he felt his cheeks grow warm.  Perhaps he was just eager, he mused.  Collins turned on his heels and practically ran to his airplane, loaded with paint pellets. 

No sooner were they both in the sky, that this time, Collins felt different about the exercise.  No longer was he awkward in trying to figure out the other man's movements.  This time, their interactions in flight felt almost like a flirtatious dance.

Collins couldn't help but grin when he got the other man right where he wanted him; he had sensed the man would be making a left turn, and the blonde pilot had already angled his scope right where he was sure Farrier would go.  He did, of course, and Collins was ready for him.

"Fire!" Collins cried out to no one in particular as he released several rounds of paint in Farrier's direction.

It was exhilarating.  Collins knew for sure he'd landed a few shots even without looking for hints of paint on the drogue, because soon he heard a bit of mild cursing crackling into his ears.  Laughing, he pushed his face mask close.

"How's _that_ for beginner's luck then, _old man?_ " he questioned, rather playfully, at that.

He laughed harder when the other man assaulted his ears with more cursing.  Collins could almost see the look of frustration he was sure was on the other man's face. 

 _"Don't get cocky there now, boyo,"_ Farrier quipped.  _"I'll have you yet."_

"Come catch me if you can, Stan," Collins said dryly, though he had on a wild grin, enjoying being able to throw the other man's earlier words right back at him.

Definitely high on adrenaline, the rapid thumping of his heartbeat was loud in his ears as Collins did his best to keep track of Farrier's movements.  Farrier, as usual, did not disappoint, and several times the other pilot ended up behind him instead of in front.  Collins managed to recover quickly each time, however, and soon was in position to fire a few more rounds the other man's way.

When the time finally came for both men to make their landing, Collins and Farrier touched down to the sounds of wolf whistles and cheers.  The minute Collins hopped out of his cockpit, he was receiving hearty slaps on the back, several of the day's spectators offering him some form of congratulations.  Farrier, in contrast, was on the receiving end of a fair bit of lighthearted teasing.

"Gave you quite a run for it, didn't he, ol' chap?" Collins heard one of the men say to Farrier as the older pilot weaved through the crowd that had gathered around them.

"That boy most certainly shed his training wheels!" said another.

Farrier merely grunted at the lot of them in response.  "Oh, _come on_ ," the man Collins recognized as Martin said.  "Don't be such a sourpuss now, Fare."

It took a moment to realize that the direction Farrier was walking in was towards _him_.  Members of the crowd seemed to have a belated recognition of this as well, and soon there was a small hush among them.  People seemed to part like they were reenacting a bit from Moses and the Red Sea.  Collins couldn't help sucking in a short breath and holding it as the other man approached, his posture stiffening slightly when the other man clapped a hand over his shoulder.

"That was a rather job well done," Farrier murmured quietly, eyes and expression unreadable, as usual.  "Good show."

"Oi!" one of the men called out to Collins as Farrier walked away from them.  "What did the old boy say, eh?  We couldn't hear it!"

"Yeah, tell us what he said to ya, mate!" another echoed.

Collins chuckled and shook his head.  "If you missed it, I'm sorry to say that I won't be repeatin' it," he said with a cheeky grin at the others.

He laughed when several of the men booed, though it was all rather jovial.  "Foul play!" some chanted in jest.

Still smiling, Collins practically skipped back to the common areas, wanting nothing more than to hoot and holler at having obtained approval from one of Britain's top aerial aces, but he managed to mostly keep his composure.  That night, however, he might have rolled about in his bed a bit too much, a little too giddy from replaying the day's events over and over in his mind.  He finally stopped and forced himself to still when the man in the bed beside him lodged his hissed complaint.

_"Would you quit tossin' about?  Let a man get some decent sleep 'round here..."_

Collins settled for just squeezing tight fists around his thin blanket, to relieve some of his extra energy and forced himself to squeeze his eyes shut, focus on his breathing.  It didn't take long after that for him to eventually, finally drift off to sleep.

* * *

_September 3, 1939._   France and Britain declared war against Germany in response to the Nazi's invasion of Poland.  Within mere hours since Britain's declaration, the  _SS Athenia_ , a British cruise ship en route to Montreal from Glasgow, was torpedoed by a German U-Boat, resulting in the death of nineteen crew members and just under a hundred civilian passengers.  Trained to put the lives of passengers over their own, the remaining crew did their best to evacuate the passengers who had survived the blast, but several of the lives that were lost that day occurred during these attempts.  Among the dead were fifty-four Canadians and twenty-eight U.S. citizens, the latter of which caused concern among German civilians that perhaps this would draw the U.S. into war.  Their fears would not become actualized until December 7, 1941, of course, with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, but the fears would eventually become realized, nonetheless.

However, for Collins and Farrier, these facts were neither here nor there at the time.  By that point, the pair were quite familiar with each other, to the extent that Farrier had routinely requested Collins as one of his flight partners for nearly every training activity.  Collins had been thrilled by all this, of course. Especially when, at some point, the dynamic between them went from a rookie pilot admiring his hero to a pair of decent pilots who shared between them both mutual respect and a friendly camaraderie. 

Later that month, they were tasked to fly together and engage with the enemy.  It would be Collins' first flight in a time of war.  Farrier, on the other hand, had already come and gone several times at that point, and had certainly seen some harrowing things. As had become a sort of silently agreed upon practice between them, the pair had walked to the hangar together, both stopping just short of where they needed to separate to get into their respective Spitfires.

Farrier clapped a hand on Collins' shoulder.  "You alright there, Collins?" he inquired softly, the usual gruff still there in his tone. 

Collins nodded, though it was a bit tight.  He gave Farrier a half-smile, though to the other man it would appear a bit more like a grimace.

"Right.  Fine," Collins said.

Farrier gave his shoulder a light squeeze.  "Don't be nervous now, mate," he said.  "Just remember to keep your wits about you, and don't forget to keep checking up on what's behind."

Collins nodded at the sage advice.  If there was one weakness he had that the enemy could exploit, it would be that sometimes Collins would be so focused on keeping track of Farrier's position, making sure the other pilot was safe from harm, that he would get something akin to tunnel vision, and would pay mind to little else, including his own safety.  This was a flaw in his judgment that they uncovered during one such practice flight the day after war was declared; they'd done a trial run with another pilot who would act as an enemy plane, chasing both Collins and Farrier.

Farrier moved his hand and pat Collins firmly once, against the upper back, close to the shoulders.  "Keep your wits about you," Farrier repeated, and this time it sounded more like an order than anything else.  "And Godspeed."

"Godspeed," Collins echoed numbly, nodding once more before turning on his heels and making his way towards his plane.

They were wheels up in twenty minutes, and for some reason Collins felt as if the sound of his breathing was louder than usual to his own ears, or perhaps it was Farrier through the communications system—the blonde pilot couldn't tell.  To memory, he couldn't think of a single instance where he'd ever witnessed the other man show an ounce of nervousness.

His first flight went much as one would expect during a time of war.  Collins shot and was shot at, and at some point, he had the unfortunate experience of several bullets penetrating the hull of his aircraft, although miraculously, he came out of this rather unscathed, save for perhaps a shallow cut along his cheek.  

After retreating once they were getting low on fuel, Collins found himself rather taken by surprise when shortly after they had both landed, he saw Farrier pop out from his fighter plane and charge over towards him in an angry sort of march, throwing his helmet down on the ground with a bit of dramatic flair.  Bewildered, Collins had barely managed to settle on his own two feet outside of his plane when he suddenly found Farrier's finger nudging forcefully against his chest.

"I thought warned you!" Farrier said angrily, almost with a snarl.  "Where did you leave your head?!"

Collins' mouth moved like a fish, stunned for a second.  "I..."

"Farrier!"

" _Not now_ , Anderson!" Farrier snapped, holding up a finger to halt the man who had spoken from approaching them.  He narrowed his eyes at Collins.  "Well?!  Where did you put it?!"

" _Calm down_ , mate!" another of the pilots said, placing a hand on Farrier's shoulder.  "Kid did all right.  The boy's in one piece still, innit he?"

It was a mistake.  Farrier whirled on the other man, thrusting out his arm and basically throwing the other man to the ground with a clean sweeping motion. 

"I told you to stay out of this, eh?!" Farrier shouted.  "Are you daft or somethin'?!"

Suddenly, there was a brief moment of chaos where other men came forth to pull the two men apart, the one that had been on the ground surprisingly peaceable upon getting helped up to his feet, while it took at least five men to subdue Farrier.  The darker-haired pilot's eyes were wide and wild; his breathing ragged and still clearly running high of adrenaline as the other men ushered him away.

The man who had been beaten down—not Anderson, but some other pilot—wiped the trickle of blood from his lip as he approached Collins with a bit of a smile.  "Don't pay him too much mind, eh?" the man suggested.

Collins shook his head.  "I'm afraid I don't know how to take it all," he said.

"Old boy's just seen a li'll bit more than you, that's all," the pilot said with the barest hints of a lazy drawl to his speech.  "Look...Farrie's taken a liking to you, yeah?  An' you know how we've lost a couple pilots in the last few weeks.  At least one of 'em that I know, he went to flight school with him.  Wouldn't say they were best mates or anything like that, but I know that he and Farrier got on."

"Ah..." Collins said, shoulders sagging a little.

"Farrie's a bit of a sentimental chap, you understand," the pilot continued.  "So don't take it too much to heart, thinkin' he might hate you or something."

Collins nodded, knowing exactly the other man's meaning.  "Right.  Of course," he said.

The man gave his arm a friendly thwack as he made to pass by.  "Chin up," he said.  "Give him a moment to cool his head, and sooner or later he'll be right as rain again."

"Yeah..." Collins said, giving the other man a small smile.   "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"You should get that checked," another pilot said to Collins, tapping his own cheek as he passed by.  "Make sure it gets disinfected.  Then maybe go and get some shut-eye."

"Right," Collins said with a nod, absentmindedly brushing his fingertips over the cut he'd forgotten about.  "Thanks."

He felt oddly disoriented after all that.  He made his way to the infirmary practically on autopilot, not quite remembering how he got there, but getting there, nonetheless.

* * *

The next time, he was better.  An enemy fighter plane was on their wing leader's tail.

 _"Got one...on me...!"_ their wing leader's voice crackled through the comms.   _"Can't...seem to shake..."_

Collins brought his face mask close and spoke into the mic there.  "Don't worry, I've got him," he said curtly before maneuvering to take care of the problem.

Distantly, he noted hearing Farrier curse in his headset, but he paid the other man no mind for now—Collins knew the other man could very well take care of himself.  It took several attempts, but Collins finally managed to get the enemy plane within his scope and fired.

"Come on, come on, come on..." he muttered under his breath, waiting for the telltale sign of smoke to stream from the aircraft.  When it did, he made a fist and made a small self-congratulatory gesture with it, and clenched his teeth.  " _Yes_."

The matter resolved, Collins then dared to take a quick scan of his surroundings, to see where Farrier might be.  Though he couldn't be sure, he somehow sensed that the other man's plane was the one currently tearing into an enemy fighter.  At least, he hoped so.

They were there for what felt like days, though really it was more like the span of several hours.  Finally, their wing leader spoke up.

 _"Job...well done, boys,"_ the wing leader said.  _"Back to...base.  Gentlemen."_

Relief flooded Collins upon hearing Farrier's voice; the first to reply.  _"Roger that."_

They returned to base without much incident, and this time after they landed, Farrier wasn't storming his way.  Instead, the older pilot waited, standing at the distance which was halfway between their aircraft.  Collins climbed out of his cockpit and eventually hopped down from a wing, then walked over to Farrier.

To his surprise, Farrier spoke up first.  "You did well out there today," he said.

"Did the best I could," Collins said with a slight shrug.

Farrier nodded, and Collins knew him well enough now to note the approval in his eyes.  The older man clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Right.  Come along, then," said Farrier.  "Why don't we go on and grab a little drink or two, just while we still can?"

"Sure," Collins said with a small smile and a nod.  "Sounds splendid."

* * *

It wasn't all quick and easy every mission, however.  It was war, after all.  On one particular day, and much to Collins' horror, Farrier's plane had been hit, and he went down.

"Farrier!" Collins shouted as he watched the Supermarine Spitfire fall.  "Farrier!  Are you there?!"

 _"Oh bollocks..."_ was all Farrier offered him in reply, but Collins would take it though—at the very least, it meant to him that the other man was still alive.

 _"We've got to get him out of there!"_ their wing leader said next.  _"Jones!  Do you copy?"_

_"I'm here, sir!"_

_"Good!  You were closest to where Farrier had to make a landing—have you got eyes on him?"_

Collins held his breath as he awaited his comrade's reply.  In the meanwhile, he kept his eyes peeled for enemy fighter planes ahead, as well as keeping stock of the action from their infantry down below. 

 _"Aye...I've got eyes,"_ the other pilot said finally, and Collins was able to release the breath he'd momentarily forgotten he was holding.  _"He looks to be injured, though."_

Collins sucked in a new breath.  That, he hadn't been expecting.

 _"Shit..."_ their wing leader replied.  _"Well, let's keep an eye on him, lads.  Make sure our men can get to him without hassle."_

 _"Roger that,"_ said Jones.

Collins brought his mask to his face.  "Roger wilco," he said, numbly.

Farrier's extraction was ultimately successful, but he wasn't entirely out of the woods yet.  When Collins landed back at base, and after making a few basic inquiries, he quickly learned that Farrier had taken a few bullets that had gone clean through, and he had been heavily bleeding already when the soldiers out on foot had finally managed to reach him.  The doctors managed to get him through surgery, and though the worst seemed to be over, the man was still out a good three days with Collins by his side for every moment of it, praying desperately for the man's full and speedy recovery.

Sometime during the third day, Farrier stirred whilst Collins was still asleep, and in a rather uncomfortable position on the hospital chair beside him. 

It was his raspy, unused voice that caused Collins to stir.  "Col...lins..."

The blonde man jerked right away.  Clearing his throat and rubbing at his eyes, Collins was soon hovering over Farrier.

"Yes," he murmured softly.  "I'm here...I'm here."

Farrier squeezed his eyes as he tried to move a little and groaned; his head was hurting a little.  "How...how long?"

Collins half-smiled.  Just like Farrier to get straight to the point; no questions about where he was, or what had happened.

"Three days," he said quietly.

Farrier sighed.  "Hm."

"You took a few shots to the abdomen," said Collins.  "But they went clean through.  You're a lucky bastard, you know that?"

He could hear the snort that the other man didn't have the strength to exert at the moment.  Instead, Farrier let out another sigh.

"Hm."

Collins hung his head.  "The doctors say you could be grounded a few months," he said.  "God, I don't know what I would have done if you'd...or if I had to leave before you woke up.  They're sending me out again in a few days..."

That seemed to get more of a reaction out of Farrier.  The man winced as he tried to turn his body towards Collins, but had to settle for moving his head only.

Farrier's brows creased together into a frown.  "Wha—what...?"

"Yeah..." Collins said with a nod.  "War's still going, you know? They need pilots..."

Farrier's expression darkened.  "I'll...I'll be damned."

It was either _I'll be damned if I don't get up before then_ or _I'll be damned if I lose you_ , that much Collins knew to be Farrier's intended meaning, for certain.  If the latter, then he most certainly felt the same way.

Collins flicked out his tongue and moistened his lips.  "That reminds me...I had a thought, you know," he said.  "While you were asleep."

Farrier managed to quirk a brow at him.  "Hn," he questioned flatly.

Collins released a small sigh.  "You've someone at home, don't you...? Family?" he hesitated a brief moment and licked his lips nervously again.  "A _girl_ , maybe...?"

Farrier snorted softly.  "Family...family, yes," he croaked, his ability to speak steadily improving.  "A girl...a girl, no. Not that."

Collins didn't know why he felt so immensely relieved.  "Oh...oh I see."

"...you?"

"Hm?" Collins asked, looking up at Farrier.  "A family, you mean? Yes. Yes, I have that as well. Father, mother, and two younger sisters—they're all still living."

"...and?" Farrier asked.  "Have you...? Anyone?"

Collins' cheeks dusted a light pink.  "Oh, uh...a girl, you mean? No," he said.  "I've not one of those myself."

"Mm."

"Yeah," Collins said, not entirely sure how to take the other man's response.  "Anyway, I was just thinking if...God forbid, _if_ , something were to have happened, well...would there be someone you'd want to have let know...?"

He swore Farrier was laughing at him, but he couldn't be sure.  The man's frame certainly was shaking a little, though.

"The RAF would do it."

"I know..." Collins said, squirming a bit in his seat.  "I just thought that maybe..."

The truth was, he'd just wanted to know whether the other man was seeing anyone.  As to why, well, his own feelings were mixed up, but he'd sort them out in time.  Not that he realized this then.

Out of the corner of his eye, Collins noted the way Farrier clenched and unclenched his fist, and recognized the action for what it was.  Tentatively, he hovered his hand over it, and then placed his hand lightly over Farrier's, nearly jumping out of his skin when the other man clasped a few of his fingers. 

It was such a simple action, and yet, Collins was suddenly riddled in goosebumps.  His body seemed to buzz with electricity from the contact; his feet felt as if they'd gotten stuck to the floor.  The blonde pilot suddenly found himself craving more.  He bit his lower lip and missed the way Farrier looked at him when he did so.

"Anyway...I should go and fetch you a doctor," Collins said, hushed; unconsciously brushing his thumb against the man's hand.  "Now that you're awake."

Both men reluctantly separated, neither man realizing the other not really wanting to do so, despite normally being able to read each other so well.  Farrier gave him the barest of nods.

"Go on, then," he rasped.

Collins nodded.  "I'll be right back," he promised, and then went to go fetch a doctor.

Despite being recommended needing a few months to fully recover, Farrier pushed himself to get back in the air within several weeks.  Though not quickly enough, to his personal standards, as one day Collins came to him with the news of his next mission. 

"I won't be there," Farrier said, clearly upset.

Collins half-smiled at him.  "I know."

"You have to come back," Farrier said, tone clipped.

Collins nodded.  "Yeah," he said, giving the other man's shoulder a light squeeze.  "Yeah, I will.  I promise."

"I'm holding you to that."

Then Collins set off. 

* * *

Flying without Farrier was most certainly a different experience.  It wasn't that Collins didn't trust his other comrades, but he did feel a little less certain, up in the air.  He didn't necessarily do anything differently—he was still rather alert; still paid close attention to his surroundings.  He still took care of the enemy as they came, and perhaps he was a fraction less distracted, because he wasn't constantly checking for Farrier's location.  It was a wonder, really, how different it felt—keeping tabs on other pilots in making sure they weren't in need of assistance somehow seemed to take much less concentration than he normally gave when Farrier was thrown into the mix.  He briefly lent a thought to wondering if the other man might feel the same way about him, as he shot down an enemy aircraft.

He'd kept his promise and returned to base completely unscathed physically; he'd been rather fortunate that day, but mentally was another matter.  That evening, the nightmares started.  Rapid gunfire.  Falling planes.  Farrier.  Always Farrier, flying alongside him.  Farrier being shot down, and Collins helpless to do anything for him.

He woke up in a cold sweat, but not screaming.  Although had he been, he would have been just one among many at that point—no one really paid those kind of cries any mind anymore, unless they were in the infirmary.  They'd all seen too much, and it blended in as part of the white noise of each evening.

That evening though, the first of its kind for Collins, he was surprised to find Farrier there, just beside him, with concern reflected in his expression.  Collins was panting softly, hair a disheveled mess, and perhaps the look in his eyes might have seemed a little crazed, had there been better lighting in the area at the time. 

He felt Farrier place his hand gently around an arm.  "Come with me," the older pilot whispered.  "Let's get you some fresh air."

Collins nodded.  They weren't supposed to be sneaking off, even for air, but the suggestion greatly appealed to him and he knew to be quiet.  He followed Farrier's lead and eventually made his way out of doors with the man.

They didn't stray far from base, of course.  In fact, they never left.  They simply hung to the shadows against where their barracks were located, still standing, their backs to a wall.  Collins leaned his head back and let out a small sigh.  He felt more than saw Farrier glance over at him.

"You'll learn to cope," Farrier said quietly.  "In a manner of time."

Collins nodded wordlessly.  They both stood there, quiet for a while.

Eventually, Farrier spoke up again.  "Care to talk about it?" he asked.

Collins again closed his eyes and swallowed down a lump he felt forming in his throat.  "We lost a few pilots, this last go round."

He sensed the other man nod.  "That happens, of course," said Farrier.  "This is war, after all."

"I, I know..." Collins said, nodding a little himself.  "I know that, but..."

"But?"

"Each time, I kept...I kept thinking," Collins said, licking his lips in a bit of a nervous tick.  "If they had been you..."

"They weren't."

"I _know_ ," Collins said, thumping his head against the wall lightly.  "I know, but if they had—that's what I dreamt about, you know, if they _had_ —then..."

He sighed.  Farrier remained quiet, allowing Collins to gather his thoughts.  The blonde pilot shook his head again.

"Listen, Farrier, if they _had_...that's what I realized, in the dream," said Collins.  "That I couldn't have done a damn thing, even if I wanted to."

Another prolonged silence settled between them.  For a while, Collins didn't think Farrier was ever going to speak.  All that seemed to fill his ears were the sounds of crickets chirping around them in the grass.

Finally though, Farrier _did_ speak.  "You understand, then, how I feel," he said simply.  "Towards you."

Collins turned his head.  Farrier's expression seemed neutral as always, on the surface, but Collins could _read him_ now.  There was a myriad of emotions there.  Then, Farrier reached out, and Collins' breath hitched, not expecting the contact.  Farrier had placed a hand over his, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Come away with me," Farrier murmured softly.

"I'd go away with you anywhere," Collins whispered back immediately, without truly thinking.

Both were confessions, somehow understood between the parties, and that was all either of them needed.  They went off and found an unmanned vehicle.  They had to be discreet about it, of course, it being the late hours and neither of them supposed to be out and about, _especially_ given what they were about to do.

Even before he and Farrier climbed into the back of some weapons truck, Collins had somehow _known_.  So when Farrier didn't give him a chance to fully stand after he'd climbed into the truck, instead flipping him gently onto his back and pinning him down beneath him, Collins was not surprised.  Neither was he shocked by the feel of warm lips against his, and as he opened his mouth to allow the other man access, Collins was able to confirm beyond shadow of a doubt that any physical contact with Farrier would make him feel as if an electric current were running through him, and make him feel as if his feet were sticking to the floor.

Soon they'd both shed their outer garments, using some of them as a makeshift blanket to place beneath Collins.  The blonde pilot was glad that they were still mostly shrouded in darkness, for he was sure his cheeks were bright as they felt flushed, from being overwhelmed by the breathtaking sight of the other man's body, as well as perhaps a little bit of shame at his own nakedness and vulnerability.  Such feelings didn't last long, however, for soon any thoughts of embarrassment were quickly whisked away and replaced by an overwhelming need and desire; their bodies soon fully entwined in the heat of their passion.

Farrier was so kind, so gentle with him, that Collins felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest.  Aside from the light smacking sounds of their fervent kissing, they knew to be quiet, although several times Collins had to bring his wrist to his mouth and bite at it, to force back the sounds he so desperately wished to elicit, to let the other man know how pleased he was feeling.  Had he been less hazy in his thoughts, the blonde might have wondered if perhaps it was how great it felt to have the man's hard length shove inside him was responsible for the feelings fluttering in his chest, but in that moment, Collins was absolutely sure that he was in love with this other man, his flight hero and champion.  So immersed was he in these thoughts, that he didn't even question whether or not Farrier might be having these same feelings about him.  Perhaps though, he didn't question it because somehow he already knew the answer, that yes, William Fitzhugh Farrier most certainly felt the same way about his James Earl Collins.

And then, when all was said and done, the pair lay there, both breathless underneath their makeshift covers of what pieces of clothing they hadn't used as padding beneath, and Collins found himself happily cradled against Farrier's chest.  He trailed his fingers gently along the other man's skin, shivering involuntarily when Farrier did something similar to his back, mostly making some back and forth motions along his spine. 

After what felt like quite some time, Farrier spoke again.  " _Hugh_ ," he said softly.

Collins lifted his head slightly, his brows furrowing together a bit.  "Pardon...?" he asked.

Farrier sucked in a breath through his nose.  "That's what the men in my family do," he clarified, looking down to meet the blonde pilot's gaze.  "We shorten our middle names, and we go by them."

Collins blinked.  "Oh," he said, before dropping his gaze a little and feeling his cheeks grow warm yet again as he realized what Farrier was telling him; the permission he was being granted.  " _Oh_..."

Farrier chuckled softly.  Pulling the younger man closer still to him, he pressed an affectionate kiss to the blonde's forehead.

"Yes, ' _oh_ ,'" he teased.  "That seems to be a rather favorite word of yours, I see."

This earned him a well-deserved smack to the chest.  Farrier laughed a bit louder, but it was still quiet enough for the situation.

"Oof."

"Serves you right, old man," Collins grumbled, but it was all in jest, Farrier knew.

"And you...?" Farrier asked, circling his fingers along the younger man's lower back now, causing the blonde to shudder involuntarily.  "What shall I call you then?  In private, of course...unless, well, you'd prefer I continue to address you as Collins, even behind closed doors..."

"Jim," Collins said quietly.  "My folks at home—my sisters, close friends...they all call me Jim."

" _Jim_..." Farrier murmured, nodding to himself as if he'd determined something.  "Mmhmm.  I like the sound of that.  Rolls right off the tongue, that..."

"And so it does, for you as well," said Collins.  " _Hugh_..."

They kissed.  Things grew heated again, and they had another round about with each other before knowing they'd have to call it quits.  Dressing themselves, just several hours before daybreak, each smiled at the other, knowing somehow that they'd be even more inseparable henceforth.  They were as attuned as lovers as they were soldiers in arms, flying the great skies together and taking numbers as they fought.  Careful they were about keeping their relationship quiet, for in those days there was little tolerance for such persons. 

Then before either of them knew it, it was June 4, 1940.  _Dunkirk_.  Collins, Farrier, and their wing leader were assigned as the group that would assist the evacuation effort, a sparse crew to handle any enemy fliers attempting to thwart the British's retreat.  Really, it was a suicide mission, sending them off so seriously undermanned, but they all knew the risks quite well by now, and none of them found reason to complain.

A short while before takeoff, Farrier managed to sneak Collins and himself into a secluded area, free of all prying eyes as he embraced the younger man, pressing their foreheads together.  A brief kiss was exchanged, and Farrier murmured against the blonde's lips.

"Now you be safe out there," he said.

"And you as well," said Collins.

There were no expressed declarations of love, although each knew of the other man's sentiments, and there was no need to say it out loud.  At least, not yet.  It was as if neither wanted to jinx it; as if saying it might as well be as good as giving the other man a final farewell.  No.  They would both get through this, and then they would make their way back home.  Together.  They would figure out a way to deal with the criticisms for their personal choices then.  That was the silent agreement between them.

"You come back to me, all right?" Farrier said, kissing his blonde pilot once more.  "You come back to me in one piece, and don't you worry about a thing on my end.  You know I can very well take care of myself."

"I know..." Collins whispered, kissing the older man once more, it never really feeling enough between the two.  "I will.  I promise."

* * *

It ended up being a one-way bargain, it seemed.  For Collins had seen that battle through safely, though there had been a close call at one point, just after his plane had been felled, where he couldn't seem to get out of his jammed cockpit, and he'd been sinking fast.  Farrier had seen his arm wave out through the crack and had mistaken it for a gesture of goodwill.  Perhaps that had been for the better, of course, because Collins was soon saved by a father and son on a civilian vessel and had Farrier even the slightest notion that the blonde was in danger, he would have dropped everything to save him, even against his better judgment and more lives would have been lost than they already had on that accursed beach. 

Peter Dawson watched the blonde pilot whom he and his father had just saved, mutter words to the pilot overhead that was chasing after a lone enemy fighter.  " _Come on_ , Farrier...!" Collins muttered, clenching his fists and wishing he could be up there to do something more.  " _Come on_...!"

There was excitement, of course, when Farrier managed to take the enemy fighter plane down, but Peter noted the way his father's expression grew somber, and also how the already strained smile slip away quickly from the blonde pilot's expression.  Peter noted with particularity that there was something else there, too.  Something more visceral than a man simply concerned over his colleague.  There was clear devastation in Collins' eyes.

"Jump out..." Collins murmured quietly to himself, the dull bustle coming from several of the men on board not too shellshocked to speak was loud enough to keep anyone from hearing what it was he was saying.  " _Come on_ , Farrier...don't be noble, you arsehole.  Get out your chute...!"

Peter didn't know what Collins was saying, of course, but he did see the way the man's frame was visibly shaking.  The expression going from panic to full on despair as Farrier's plane disappeared off into the distance, eventually landing too far away from the safety of the border thinly protected by the Allies, though no one but Farrier would know this at the time.

The older pilot was the only person, the only _thought_ at the forefront of all thoughts in Collins' mind.  And when, shortly after landing and making it to shore, he was bumped into roughly by a navy corpsman who recognized his jacket, he interpreted the callous words the man spat very differently than Mr. Dawson.

_"Where the hell were you?"_

"They knew where you were," Mr. Dawson, the owner of the vessel that had saved him said, referring to the men who'd arrived on shore together with Collins on the same boat.

The blonde pilot knew the man meant well, but his words were of so little comfort.  _Where the hell was he indeed_ , Collins thought bitterly to himself, _when Farrier fell_.  _When Farrier needed him most_.  He hadn't been there.  It didn't matter that he couldn't have been; that it had been physically impossible for him to be, at the time.

As irrational as it was, there was still a shred of hope left in him.  _The pair had made a promise, after all_ , he thought to himself.  _To come back home together, safely_.  _Surely Farrier was able to land quite well, and then make his way onto some boat, be it manned by civilians or the Navy_.  With those thoughts in mind, Collins began to search, and scanned the faces of men who clambered onto the pier.

So concentrated was he, searching the face of each and every soldier who passed by, desperate for the slightest glimpse of that familiar brown bomber jacket, that Collins did not notice he was being spoken to until he felt the squeeze of a hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, Collins recognized the one addressing him as the civilian captain of the small vessel that had saved him from his near drowning. He couldn't remember his name, or perhaps they hadn't really introduced themselves. Collins didn't remember, nor did he think it much mattered.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

"That's all right, son," the man replied.  "I said is there someone you are looking for?"

Collins nodded. "My mate," he said, returning his focus to the crowd of people.  "He ran out of fuel. He should have landed on shore."

He didn't notice the man's son, the blonde—Collins didn't know his name either—say something to his father.  He only heard the reply.

"These men have sacrificed greatly, son," the man said. "It is not for us to judge."

Even as the crowd began to thin, and hope seemed to grow steadily more bleak, Collins remained where he was.  He was still there even as the sun began to set, unblinking, passerby barely noting him, assuming he was just another shellshocked soldier better off left well and alone.

Finally, there was that same hand at his shoulder again.  Collins turned to face Mr. Dawson once more.  The man's expression was kind and sympathetic.

"Come along, now," said Mr. Dawson.  "Have you need of a place to stay?"

He didn't, not really.  Collins knew he still had his family, but they lived so far away from the pier, and he was safe, so selfish as it was, he felt that they could wait a bit longer to hear from him.  So he lied.

"Do you live close to here?" he asked.

Mr. Dawson nodded.  "Just 'round the bend," he said.  "Not far."

"I'd hate to trouble you," Collins said, minding his manners.

"We've an extra room," said Mr. Dawson.  "It's no trouble it all.  You can stay as long as you'd like."

And it was the truth, of course, Collins could see it in the man's eyes.  He remembered the mention of the loss of an older son, who probably looked much like Peter, maybe even a little like himself, his blonde hair and all.  A Hurricane pilot who'd fallen in the early stages of the Second World War.  Knowing this was probably why Collins felt it was safe to trust him.

"For a short while, then," he said finally.

Mr. Dawson nodded again.  "As long as you'd like," he repeated.

Collins took one last glance behind him, at the sea, before following Mr. Dawson and his son Peter home.  He helped with carrying the body of the deceased younger boy, one with raven hair, that he'd only had the chance to inspect how Peter had tried to patch up and not truly the opportunity to become personally acquainted.  It was the least he could do, after all.

The last thought he had that evening, having barely eaten anything at all, despite Mr. Dawson's generous offerings, while lying in bed was how he resolved to be back at the docks on the morrow, bright and early.  Just in case.

That night, when he closed his eyes, the nightmares returned again for the first time in a long while, and this time there was a horrifying truth to them.  Farrier shooting the last stray enemy fighter plane down.  Farrier's engine stalling, because he'd burned through the last of his fuel.  His Spitfire, disappearing off in the distance, no sign of the man himself ejecting from it, perhaps because he felt to go the way of a sea captain.  He would go down with his ship, in a manner of speaking.  Make sure it burned down proper, so the enemy couldn't inspect it; couldn't make any use of it for their own operations.  For King and Country, and all that.

This time, Collins did more than break out into a cold sweat.  This time, he _was_ screaming.

And this time, there was no Farrier there to comfort him.  To offer him, despite their harrowing circumstances, the semblance of safety and love, even if the former would only remain an illusion for a few moments, it had always been welcome.

Understanding, the Dawsons offered him some tea to soothe some of his symptoms; the shallow ones.  Sleep, fatigue—what his physical needs were.  Kind as they were, however, they could do nothing at all for his present state of mind.

The next morning, as he'd resolved to, Collins was gone at daybreak, several hours before breakfast.  Peter had thought him gone for good, but his father promised him that the man would return, and that no matter how many times he did so, this back and forth, that they would host him for as long as it took.  For Mr. Dawson understood, at least to some degree, what Collins was going through, after all.  He remembered having done the same things himself, shortly after his oldest son had died.  Despite knowing the truth, Mr. Dawson hadn't wanted to accept it.  Peter would realize much later, after having ruminated over it a while on his own time, that it was his brother's memory that had fueled his father's need to man his vessel out to such treacherous waters.  Why he'd risked his life, and why he'd insisted on saving the pilot, even if Peter hadn't seen any chute.  As if saving the life of one pilot would be like going back in time and somehow saving his own son.

His father was right, of course, for Collins returned very late in the evening, resting awhile, only to go right back out there early the next day.  They'd somehow managed a silent arrangement where the hearty breakfast and third plate setting became reduced to something a lot more quick and easy for the blonde pilot to grab and go on his way out—some french toast and a little cuppa, the latter of which the man always drank quickly and left behind with the tea bag stuck to the bottom of it.

This went on for several days, weeks even—truthfully, Peter had eventually lost count.  Though they barely exchanged words, Peter could sense just as well as his father that the man was grateful for what they were doing, for asking no questions, and really, it wasn't so bad.  It helped him take his mind off of what happened to George a little.

Then, one day, the man left and never returned.  The following morning, over breakfast, Peter decided to quietly ask his father.

"You think something's happened to him?"

Mr. Dawson shook his head.  "No."

"Think he's given up?"

His father shook his head again.  "No."

Then.  "Do you think he might be coming back...?"

Mr. Dawson set down his newspaper.  "No, son," he said, making as if he'd intended to smooth out the pages before folding them over and turning to the next article.  "That I do not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More on the way—I've already planned this whole thing out; it's just a matter of writing it all down. Hopefully this fic will be completed in the next day or so. Just wanted to get this chapter out and posted in the meanwhile. Stay tuned!


	2. Act II: The Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collins had nothing else to work with but the facts which appeared to be set before him; he didn't know any better.

Collins had, at some point, either heard the news through eavesdropping chatter where one person read to another, or he had picked up a paper and read the words for himself.  He couldn't recall.  Not that it mattered.  A lot of things didn't seem to matter at all to him, these days.  He knew the words well, however.

> _We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be._

_Whatever the cost may be._   The war had come at a great cost for all, especially for him, Collins had thought to himself at first, but then shook his head of such selfish musings. Some had lost fathers, uncles, cousins, or even brothers.  There were those, like him, who had lost their lovers.  Men had lost life and limb over this war. He was not alone.  He was, in fact, one of many.

In the days after he'd been rescued, he'd been hopeful.  Within weeks, he'd grown bitter.  By the end of the month, he was in despair, and perhaps even borderline suicidal.  Of course, it was Farrier's shadow who'd come and stopped that last bit; appearing peacefully in one of Collins' dreams for the first time in days since he'd lost the other man, scolding him for having such deep, dark thoughts and telling him that no matter what the case, that he should go and press on. 

 _"And besides,"_ Farrier had said to him that time, in that same dream.  _"Don't you know—I'm not dead yet."_

 _Not dead yet_.  That was a truth that Collins clung to, like a lifeline.  There had been no official word on Farrier's status, not in the papers, nor from the ranks, when Collins eventually reclaimed his duty and reported to them.  They never recovered any body.  Not that it was really saying all that much—many bodies would forever be lost and never recovered from the war.  Still though, Collins chose to hold out hope, no matter how foolish that it might have been to do so, that at the very least, one day they _would_ for him.  For Farrier.

Then that day came, sometime in the latter months of 1943, the call came.  It only came for him in addition to, and despite the fact that he wasn't, family, because most everyone involved in the chain of communications had at some point become familiar with Collins.  They either remembered him as the fond favorite of his former colleague, Farrier, or simply because he'd been incessant in his calling every department imaginable.  _Constantly_.  As if it was a given that one day, somebody somewhere out there would have for him a different bit of _news_.

It hadn't been the kind he'd been wanting to hear.  The calling officer sounded rather sympathetic in his tone when he gave Collins the reason for the very call.

 _"An agreement was made, and several bodies were recovered,"_ the gentleman told him.  _"I've gotten word to the family, as well as their permission...Mr. Collins, if you're able to make the trip to see him, I'm sorry to say that one among them has been determined to be the remains of Mr. William Fitzhugh Farrier."_

"No, no, no, _no_ , dammit— _no_ _!_ " Collins shouted, nearly missing the rest as he crumpled down on the floor to his knees and wept.  " _Oh_..."

The man on the other end was patient, knowing well enough to wait before continuing any further.  When it seemed as if Collins had gathered a bit more of himself again, the officer checked with him.

 _"Mr. Collins?"_ he asked.  _"Mr. Collins, are you there?"_

"Y-yes...yes, sir, I'm here," Collins replied, broken, the back of one hand brought to his eyes as he forcefully wiped away the tears that had formed there.  He sniffled.  "I...my apologies, that..."

The gentleman on the other end sighed, his voice taking on a faraway quality of its own, as if though he were reliving some painful memories of his own.  _"We've all at some point...the truth is, we've all at some point lost someone we've cared about during this war,"_ he said.  _"That being said, I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr. Collins..."_

"I...thank you," Collins said, really at a loss for much else to say.  "Thank you very much, sir...for that."

 _"Of course,"_ the other man replied.  _"Now, if you've a pen and paper at the ready, I can provide you with the address and other such details where the ship carrying Mr. Farrier's remains and personal effects will be docked..."_

"Yes...yes, of course," Collins said, frantically searching about for paper and a pen.  When he'd found what he needed, he nodded and tapped the writing utensil absently against the pad.  "There we are, now.  I'm ready..."

 _"Very good, sir,"_ the man said.  _"Now, the address is—"_

As the man rattled off several numbers, a street name, a list of contacts, and several other details, Collins quickly scribbled this all down.  The ship would be docked in three days time, and Collins would be sure to be one of the first ones there, to welcome his belated love Farrier home. 

* * *

Collins was at the pier hours before the ship was set to arrive.  Having been unable to sleep, he'd convinced his father to relinquish the keys to the family car, and he'd set off just before daybreak. 

Whilst there, parked at the docks, Collins found himself wondering over what Farrier's family must be like.  He'd never seen any pictures, and the one time he and Farrier had made conversation about it, Collins realized upon looking back that although he'd given the other man a few specific details about his, that he hadn't learned or acquired any more details about the older man's.  He wondered then if the other man had ever written any letters; perhaps spoken to any of them about him.  Not that he'd have been hurt if the other man hadn't, for really, given their circumstances, there wasn't really a whole lot that _could_ have been said about it. 

At least, not appropriately.  Not unless his family were of the tolerant kind.  Which, given the way they'd discussed pursuing their relationship after the fighting was over— _if_ they ever got to the point where the fighting would ever be over—it seemed as though Farrier's family was about as tolerant about homosexual relationships as his own family seemed to be.  That was to say, that although he'd never broached the subject with them explicitly, based on past family conversations over dinner in his childhood, Collins felt that it was safe to assume that it was a damn sure case of not very much at all.  Still, that wouldn't stop him from wanting to make a good impression on them regardless, if they were to cross paths, even if he would just tout himself as one of Farrier's closest friends from the War. 

Collins figured he must have dozed off, at least momentarily, because next thing he knew, he was being roused by a sound like a foghorn.  He got out of the car quickly, having spotted a large vessel headed towards the docks.  He was one of the first there, waiting by the pier.  He'd beaten Farrier's family by a mere twenty minutes, but he didn't know that yet.

When they did arrive, there was a bit of a processional already underway, as Navy Corpsman came out from the ships with several wooden boxes in tow, each draped over with the British flag.  Collins approached one man immediately, who appeared to responsible for just standing there and making sure that everything was orderly.  He'd remembered to don his old bomber jacket and dog tags, just in case.

"Sir," Collins said, speaking to the Corpsman, who turned and gave him the once over, seeming to note the blonde's appearance and demeanor.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asked, deducing correctly.

"Yes," Collins nodded.  "I'm Collins.  James Earl."

The man's eyes lit up in recognition; apparently the blonde's reputation preceded him.  "Ah, _yes_.  _Collins_ ," he said, nodding.  "I was told to be aware of you."

In that moment, Collins hadn't really had the decency to blush, though he did manage to look somewhat sheepish.  "Ah, did you?" he said.

The Corpsman nodded.  "Yes," he said.  "You were a colleague of Farrier's, I hear?  The King's Ace?"

"You heard correctly," Collins said with a nod, trying to keep it together enough so his mental stability wouldn't be called into question.  "I...I've come to see him."

"Very good," the Corpsman replied.  "Come with me."

Collins knew then, which coffin the man was going to lead him to, even before the other man led him to it.  They had, it appeared, been anticipation of his arrival, and placed a couple of Farrier's personal effects on top of the British flag covering his coffin, perhaps for ease of identification at a quick glance.  Collins noticed right away the brown of the man's tattered jacket, and his heart sank to the pit of his stomach, knowing that this was it.  That Farrier really had kept his promise to come back home to him, but just not the way he'd been hoping.  Collins' eyes brimmed with emotion.

"The family hasn't approached me yet.  Perhaps they're not yet here.  Usually we have the immediate family members approach first, but..." the Corpsman said, voice dropping to a low murmur as they stood in front of Farrier's coffin.  "...I'm sure you know as well as I that—"

"That sometimes blood isn't thicker than the bonds that are forged between a band of brothers," Collins replied, murmuring just as low in completing the other man's sentence.

The Corpsman nodded.  "There you go," he said.

"May I have a moment...?" Collins asked.

The Corpsman nodded again.  "Indeed.  Of course," he said.  "Take your time, then.  I'll let you know when the family's here."

Farrier's family _was_ there, of course, just neither man knew it.  A short distance away stood Farrier's father, mother, sister, and brothers—all younger siblings.  The mother was leaning against the father, who was holding everyone back.  A man who'd himself experienced what it was like to be on the front lines in a time of war, he knew in a sense what it was that Collins was going through, and knew that time was something he most certainly needed.  He'd recognized Collins by the jacket, even if he knew nothing else about the man.  In seeing the blonde approach a casket, donned with a similar jacket, albeit far more weathered than his own, John Harrison Farrier had somehow _known_ that the casket the young man was now approaching belonged to that of _his son_.  When he explained this to Farrier's mother and siblings there, they were anxious about it, wanting to approach the casket themselves, but they knew where their father was coming from, and stood back without much protest because they understood.

When the Corpsman left him, Collins drew closer to the casket, a shaky hand outstretched as he reached for Farrier's dog tags and jacket.  When he touched the fabric was when he lost it—Collins let out a yelp, a kind of pained sound that he didn't think he'd ever let out of him before, and upon lifting his jacket, bringing it to his nose and breathing in the scent that he was sure was Farrier's, the former pilot soon broke down sobbing.

"Oh Hugh... _Hugh_...!" he murmured softly into the jacket, just utterly devastated by the reality of it all.  "You said you'd come back, Hugh...but not at all like this, no.  _Not at all_..."

He was given his time, and soon the family approached the Corpsman from before, identifying themselves.  The man offered to guide them to the casket, but after confirming if Collins indeed was standing in front of his son, Farrier's father shook his head and told him that things would be fine, and that they would handle the interaction.  The Corpsman agreed to this a bit reluctantly and allowed the family to approach Collins, though he did keep a wary eye after them to make sure there wouldn't be some kind of verbal assault exchanged, or some kind of tousle.

The hand on his shoulder was warm, and most certainly gentle.  When Collins turned around, he nearly gasped with surprise to see a man who looked every bit the spitting image of Farrier, only clearly much older.  Collins was certain then, especially seeing equal amounts of resemblance among Farrier's mother and siblings, that he was indeed meeting with the deceased's family.  Collins quickly wiped his face down with his sleeve and apologized quickly.

"S-sorry...!" he said, holding Farrier's personal effects towards the mans father and shaking his head.  "I'm...I'm so sorry...!"

"Nothing 'fore you to apologize about, son," Farrier's father replied.  "I take it you knew my boy, then?"

Collins nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else at first, but then he decided to offer.  "One hell of a pilot, s-sir," he managed to get out.  "A legend, really...one hell of a hero.  I...I..."

 _Loved him_ , he didn't say.  _With all my heart—the very essence of my being._

Instead, he settled for, "I looked up to him, truly."

Farrier's father nodded gratefully.  "Thank you, son," the man said, giving the blonde's shoulder another light squeeze.  "I appreciate your telling me."

Collins nodded.  "I could tell you all about him—what he was like..." the blonde winced slightly, realizing how crass that might have sounded on its own.  He amended, mumbling.  "During the War, I mean, sir...you know, how he was when...well..."

Words failed him, and yet Farrier's father understood Collins somehow, much like his son had.  It made the blonde man think, for just a moment, how different this interaction could have been, had he been born a woman.  He shook himself of that thought, however.  There was no guarantee he would have met Farrier then, much less gained his respect in such the way that he had.

"I would sure like that, and I'm sure his siblings and mother would as well," Farrier's father said, motioning towards the members of his family.  "Why don't you come and meet them?"

"Y-yes," Collins stammered, not having expected the offer.  "Yes, of course."

* * *

He'd been invited to dinner with the Farriers afterward, and Collins gratefully accepted.  Farrier's sister turned out to be quite the delight, as were the man's brothers.  Mr. and Mrs. Farrier treated him kindly, and by the end of it all, Collins found himself entertaining for the briefest of moments if perhaps he should woo Farrier's sister, who was close enough to him in age at twenty-three, wondering if it would perhaps allow him to stay close to his family and in turn, feel as if he still had a small part of him always close by.  Collins banished the thought quickly, however, almost as soon as he'd had it, for he knew to do something like that would neither be fair to himself or Farrier's sister, and it most certainly would feel as if he were spitting on Farrier's memory by going such a cheap route.  So Collins figured he would be leaving the family behind later that evening, empty-handed.

Mr. Farrier, it seemed, was intent on surprising.  He'd stopped Collins at the door, just as the blonde man was about to leave.

"You there, Collins," Mr. Farrier said, causing the other man to turn around and give him a questioning look.

"Yes, sir?" Collins asked.

He was not expecting the moment when Farrier's father held towards him his late lover's dog tags and tattered jacket.  Collins looked up at him, stunned.  Slowly, he shook his head.  As much as he wanted them, he knew that however much they meant to him, they would mean all the more to the man's family.  He also was sure Farrier's father wouldn't have been so gracious, had he known just what kind of relationship he and Farrier truly had been in, back then. 

"Oh no, sir," Collins mumbled, gently nudging the man's offerings back towards him.  "I couldn't...I couldn't accept all that."

"Nonsense," Mr. Farrier said, pushing the items back towards him with a little more force, insisting.  "We'll always have my son in our family plot, but you...I know not how far away you live—"

"Not far," Collins lied, quickly. 

"Even so," Mr. Farrier said, shaking his head.  "Man to man—former pilot to former pilot.  Especially someone who has himself seen the terrors, and still carries with him the horrors of that First World War, I...it's all right, son.  I want you to have it.  Hugh would have, too."

There was irony in those words, not that the father knew, of course.  Collins felt fresh tears spring into his eyes.

" _Hugh_..." Collins murmured softly, nearly choking up in front of Farrier's father with sudden overwhelming emotion.  He quickly blinked back the tears and shook his head, giving Farrier's father a look of apology.  "Oh, my...I'm so sorry."

"Hogwash, son," Mr. Farrier said, with a tired smile.  "Now, go on, take them.  And remember...Hugh's plot is here, so...you feel free to visit him, yes?  Anytime you'd like.  It's of no consequence to me or the others.  In fact, I've no doubt Hugh would insist on your visiting."

Collins broke out into a chuckle, but it might've sounded a little strained, at that.  He nodded at the older man gratefully.

"Thank you, I will, sir..." Collins said, finally accepting the small bundle of clothing and Farrier's tags into his outstretched arms.  He couldn't help hugging them to his chest immediately upon receiving them.  "Thank you..."

"Anytime, son," Mr. Farrier said.  "Now, you remember that, y'hear?  You are welcome to visit our home and Hugh here, anytime."

Collins nodded once more, and then turned towards where he had left his family's car.  Instead of driving off right away, he'd sat there a while, Farrier's jacket set onto his lap, the dog tags he tangled in his fingers as he stroked gently over his late lover's details beneath his thumb and forefinger.  He resolved then and there to work more hours at his current job to earn money and save up for his own car, just so he could hang Farrier's tags from the rear view mirror without the risk of being asked so many questions or have members of his family express their grievances, if they thought having them there would be too morbid or if they simply didn't appreciate any obstructions to their view through the windshield.  Which, given that this was a shared car across family members, Collins figured they were in their rights to do if they felt the need to. 

Matter of fact, he thought, perhaps he would go on and save up for a house of his own, too.  Perhaps one off in the countryside somewhere, like he and Farrier used to talk about going to, after their service in the World War.  He figured the man would have liked that, even though he would no longer be there to see their dream through, in the end.  Collins was sure Farrier would still want him to do it, if it helped him get on with his life. Collins would agree that perhaps getting out of his family home, which hadn't changed in how loving it was, and yet after coming home it had suddenly begun to feel all too stuffy; however, getting on with his life as if Farrier had never been a part of it, well.  That just simply wouldn't do.  Farrier would be a fool, if he was expecting that from where he stood, in the afterlife.  Collins may have been young in age, but he had gained many more years than that while in service, beneath the surface. 

Love had torn him up inside, and nothing in all the world could put those shattered pieces back together again.  Not with tape, nor glue, nor any substance or material meant to fix or bond together.  For there would always be cracks in the glass, and once broken, twice more it could just as easily become shattered another time.  And to do it, it wouldn't take much. 

The drive back to his family home seemed long, but perhaps, oddly enough, a little less lonely.  For the comfort of having some of Farrier's personal effects was a lot greater than the man had initially thought they would bring him, and now he was all the more grateful for Farrier's father to have given them to him.

He took care, that when he slept with Farrier's jacket, close to his chest, that he did so discreetly.  He made sure not to have it with him in bed until all other lights of the house were out, and Collins made sure to wake a full hour before the rest of his family so he could put the jacket back in a wooden trunk meant for storage; he didn't want his family to think he had some strange obsession with his late partner, especially since he never planned to let on exactly just what they had truly meant to each other.

* * *

He wouldn't have to take care for too long, however.  Just a year after he'd gotten Farrier's things, and met his lover's family, Collins did as he'd always done and set out to do as he'd intended.  He worked hard, scraped some savings together, and first got himself that car.  He rewarded himself for this accomplishment by hanging Farrier's tags on the rear view like he'd wanted.  Collins then wasted little time in doing the same thing to purchase his new home in a mostly rural area, and after doing so, this time he rewarded himself by paying Farrier a visit at his family's plot.  He'd greeted Farrier's family first, of course, warmly welcomed by them, and then he'd set off for Farrier, to properly pay his respects.  He'd brought with him a bottle of brandy, a pair of glasses, and a blanket to sit upon.  Setting one glass near the man's headstone, Collins poured some of the spirits into the glass meant for Farrier, first, before pouring some of the liquid into his own.

" _Cheers_ ," Collins said, clinking glass against glass before taking a sip of the drink he'd poured.  "What's the celebration for, you ask?  Why...I've just gone and bought myself a house."

Within the span of several minutes, he'd already gone through half the first glass, and then he set it down for a moment, reaching for Farrier's.  Winking at the headstone, he looked around him before tipping the glass over slightly, letting the liquid pour onto the patch of grass beside the granite. 

"Shh," Collins said, chuckling softly, his tone hushed and a bit conspiratorial.  "Let's not tell the grave keeper about this, yes?  I wonder if they have drinks and pubs up there for us in Heaven.  Well, do they?  Could you tell me?"

Once the last drop had been soaked up by the earth, Collins poured Farrier another, placed it on the base of the headstone like before, and then picked up his half-finished glass again.  He took another few sips out of it as he went on.

"Got the type of place we used to always talk about...someplace _way_ out there, with tons of grass," Collins murmured.  "One with a view.  Got it for me—no, not really.  I got it for _you_ , love...you would have adored it."

He poured himself a bit more of the brandy then.  His eyes had clouded and appeared a bit more like a stormy grey, reflecting the man's inner state of melancholy.  He took another drink from his glass.

"I can still read you like a book, you know...hell, even if I can't even see you anymore..."

He brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.  Collins soon rested his head against his arms and began to start sobbing.

" _Gods_ , I just _miss you_..." he despaired and his voice cracked, broken, and his body was visibly shaking.  He whispered, lamenting.  "I wish you would just come back to me, darling... _oh_ , how I miss you..."

He remained like that a while, crying, then gathering himself.  Pouring brandy into the earth, then pouring himself another glass.  Crying some more.  Then finally, he was out of alcohol, and Collins eventually grew numb, a bit hazy from the drinking.  Gradually, he'd gotten himself a bit more spread out on the blanket, legs stretched out, hands behind him.  Gaze turned upwards, towards the sky. 

"Perhaps I should take up wings again..." Collins murmured softly.  "Maybe then I could reach you...what do you think about that, hm?"

At some point—Collins didn't know when, nor for how long he'd been there by that time—he'd fallen onto his back, continuing to stare up at the sky.  He remained like that until he could feel the feeling back in his arms and legs, and when his thoughts began to grow more clear.  He was sobering.

When he'd felt recovered enough from the drinking, Collins heaved out a sigh and rose to his feet, lifting up the blanket and began folding it up.  Shortly after that, he stacked one glass on top of another, and with the hand attached to the arm with the blanket tucked underneath it, Collins picked up the now empty bottle of brandy by its neck.

"Wouldn't do to leave behind evidence now, would it?" Collins murmured as he put two fingers to his lips of the hand holding the empty bottle and then pressed them against the edge of Farrier's cold headstone.  "I'll be back to see you again soon, my love.  I promise I won't have you waiting too long for my next visit."

He turned then, and began to make his way into the car.  After starting it up and beginning to drive away from the cemetery, Collins returned to that thought he had earlier.  Nodding to himself, he tightened the grip he had slightly on his steering wheel.

 _He'd save up for a plane then, next—a proper civilian one, of course_ , he thought to himself.  And _yes_ , he resolved within himself, while turning out and onto a main road.  He nodded to himself again.  _Why, he would go on ahead and do just that_.


	3. Act III: The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the promise they had made, and that need to keep his word was most certainly what kept Farrier going.

It had been the toughest flight of his career, without doubt, for Farrier.  Low on fuel, one last enemy fighter plane remaining; both Collins and his wing leader down, the latter, presumably fatally.  Farrier had ultimately succeeded, of course, in his mission.  He was The King's Ace, after all.  He had to live up to his name just as much as he had to live up to his duty.

> _We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender._

_We shall never surrender_.  This was a mantra Farrier already held in his heart, riding in his slowly falling plane with the stalled engine, days before Churchill would make his poignant peroration, which would go down in history as one of the most memorable, and most widely quoted speeches of his generation.  He'd seen his opportunity, of course.  After he was certain his plane would crash a fair distance away from the Allied forces bunched along the beach, he could have taken up his chute and deployed, but he had one last responsibility, he figured.  One more thing to do before he could keep his promise to the young lad he came to associate with _home_. 

He could hear Collins berate him, even without actually hearing him, Farrier knew, deep down, that the blonde was cursing at him from where he was.  Telling him to stop being such an upright prat; to not do anything brash. 

Collins was safe though, and though it shouldn't have placed Farrier in a sudden disregard for his own life, he had suddenly lost all of his tension.  Perhaps that was partly why he nearly missed cranking his wheels just in time for a landing, unfortunately well beyond what little protection the dwindling Allied perimeter could have offered him, or why he'd numbed to all sense of self-preservation.  The one he wanted most to protect, outside of his God-given duties, was in his mind safe, and therefore the only thing left to do was guarantee the enemy could not take hold of and salvage any part of what was still usable of his Supermarine Spitfire.

He knew the risks, of course.  The enemy had likely been keeping tabs of him while he was in the air, and surely they noticed something strange about his descent after taking care of the last of them in the sky.  Torching the plane would no doubt indicate either his death or survival, and regardless, the Axis powers would no doubt send scouts to check on his status.  He was well within their sights, after all, and just one man.  He'd hardly pose them a threat.

He could have run, perhaps, or tried to hide at the very least, at some point after lighting his plane on fire, but he figured his chances of survival would be greater if he just waited there and allowed himself to be captured.  He didn't plan to put up a struggle; he just wanted to make sure the Spitfire was rendered completely useless.  Properly.

It didn't take long for him to spot enemy soldiers, great in number—overkill, almost, for one man, he thought to himself dryly as they jogged towards him.  His instincts, as always, had proved to be spot on, of course.  Though the enemy held up their guns, none made to shoot, and several came to drag him away from the burning aircraft by the arms.  Farrier easily complied, forcing his legs to move as they pushed him along.

He was forced into one of those camps for interning prisoners of war, immediately put to work, at first, though Farrier spent this time searching for ways to escape.  His first attempt was with several other men through a drain.  This attempt was unsuccessful.  He next tried, once again, with a number of men, to traverse through a latrine tunnel.  This time, he'd made it out, but in less than a week he was recaptured by the Axis and sent to work at a different camp.  Sometime later, to his surprise, he was called to meet with several of the Axis' military superiors—someone had apparently recognized Farrier for who he was, one of Britain's top pilots in the RAF, and they sought to strike a bargain with him.  Turn on his country, serve as a spy, perhaps even pilot for the Axis powers, and he would live. 

If he played his cards right, Farrier knew, he could use this opening as an excuse to safely get himself back home.  It was purely on principle, however, that he felt that he could not give in to their demands.  He refused.

Angered, the response, at first, was to throw Farrier into solitary confinement in a cell where there wasn't even enough room to stand.  He was provided only with enough food and water to survive, but no more than that, and he grew impressively haggard over the course of two weeks.  When he wouldn't break, they then brought him out and began with the greater physical torture.  His fingers were broken, then reset.  His back was whipped not just till it bled, but till it became a sure thing that even if the wounds healed properly, his back would forever be marred by the scarring. 

When the Axis realized that there was little they could do to get Farrier to betray his homeland, they began to threaten his family.  Alarmingly thin, and considerably weakened by now, Farrier still somehow had the strength to laugh at them.

"You're already tryin' to do that," he'd spat.  "Like I'd offer my hand to help."

This earned him a shattering fist to the cheek, causing him to spit out three of his now lost teeth, which he'd been fortunate not to have choked on.  They charged him with false war crimes next, sentencing him to thirty years in prison.  Farrier was unshaken.  They tried to force him to more backbreaking labor, but the man would not be moved.  Disgusted with his resolve, the Axis transferred him to another facility, where he was kept nine months in solitary confinement before he was thrown back in with several other prisoners.  Once again, he began to develop some sort of viable escape plan.

His breakthrough nearly came, three years later, in 1943.  Recognized during the constant changing of hands mostly because of his name and identification, Farrier convinced a fellow inmate to switch identities with him.  The man did so quite easily, being a fellow Brit and recognizing Farrier for who he was, not to mention he knew that he was near death.

" _By Jove_...!" the man had whispered, shaking his head in disbelief as they exchanged tags and what was left of their tattered clothes that the enemy let them keep.  "If anyone will make it out of this thing alive, _it's you_."

Farrier had cracked a small smile, the first time in years, then.  "Oh, you flatter me much, comrade."

"But it's true," the man said, taking hold of one of Farrier's hands in a grip shake.  "Godspeed to you, gentleman."

"Godspeed," Farrier murmured back, respectfully.

The prisoner had made peace with his end, and was accepting of it.  He explained to Farrier that he'd been meant for transfer aboard a ship.  Farrier indicated that he understood, and again thanked the man for the opportunity.

"Just get home," the other man had replied.  "Just get on home, take again to the skies, and give them hell.  Give all them bastards hell."

"I will," Farrier had promised.  "Oh, I most certainly will."

* * *

Farrier never knew what happened after that, or at least, he wouldn't hear the story for several more years.  He had no knowledge, at the time, that just four months later, "he" would be transported back to his homeland as a tattered jacket and tags atop a box holding his supposed corpse.  Had he known that would be the end, perhaps he might have thought to leave a note in his inside jacket pocket, despite the risk; task the other fellow with it.  His superiors would learn of his status soon enough, but at the very least there was one individual whom he wanted to let know for certain that he was safe.  For the time being, at any rate; he was still out there, surviving.

 _Collins_.  One man, one memory.  A fever dream, those early days had been, really, when they were still fresh faces in light of war.  If this were a book, there were most certainly pages he would have earmarked, particularly the times they spent, exploring their feelings for each other.  Feelings Farrier continued to hold, and hoped Collins hadn't forgotten them amidst their unintended period of separation.  Pushing all feelings of doubt away, the mere thought of the other man was more than enough to keep him going.

He wished there were a way he could write.  It was the romanticist in him, a trait that had lain dormant in him, for a rather long time.  That was, until meeting Collins had sparked the fire beneath him, awakening it.

Unable to send a letter, but having faith the other man could still hear him somehow, in the way they used to when they were pilots alongside each other, Farrier wrote to Collins in his mind.  He was confident that it was all still there, the ability to read one another, sense what the other man was thinking, and communicate, without so much as uttering a word. 

 _Dear Collins_ , one such internally sent telegram wrote.  With a little dash of humor in it too, despite his morbid circumstances.  _Nay, dear Jim.  My love, my heart—the very essence of my being, etcetera, etcetera._

So he went.  Farrier would find himself chuckling at times as he would compose these letters in his thoughts, laughing to himself at the very absurdity of it.  And yet, it was part of what helped him to carry on.

 _Tried boarding a ship using another man's identity_ , he chronicled one time.  _Attempted to hide.  Got found out.  Those bastards threw me back into the cooler._

"The cooler" was a term often used at the time to refer to solitary confinement.  _I'll come back to you_ , he promised.  Farrier always promised this to Collins; in his mind, in his heart.  _I will always keep finding ways so that I can come back to you._

He was a lucky man, oh damn, he was _one hell of a fortunate bastard_ , as he often swore he could hear Collins saying to him in his mind.  Most soldiers were not serial escapists.  They'd make one attempt and be killed, or make one attempt and decide that the broken bones and bruises afterward were far from worth it.  Farrier did not judge them; he did not criticize them for not trying harder, for holding onto shreds of hope that perhaps one day they might be rescued.

Farrier though, refused to be one to sit still.  _We shall never surrender_ , said Winston Churchill.  _We shall go on to the end_.  Farrier was going to either keep his word and make it home to Collins in one piece, or he would die trying.

Perhaps it was the fact that Farrier had apparently already been sent home once, dead, that some higher power decided that was enough for him, that in that regard, they'd decided he'd paid his dues and had mercy on him.  After nearly eleven separate attempts spanning over the course of approximately five years, there finally came the breaking point.  A firefight came between the Axis soldiers of the camp Farrier was at the time interned in, and members of the British armed forces, and when all firing ceased, Farrier saw his opportunity and staggered his way to the British front lines.

Guns were raised, but once again, being the lucky bastard he was, a hand from the British side raised, halting them.  "Stop!  Hold your fire!" Farrier could hear the man say from a short distance.  "Clearly he's one of ours!"

They took him and several others back with them to camp, where they were treated for any wounds before later on being boarded onto a ship where _finally_ they would be set sail for home.  To freedom.  England.

"You can practically see it from here," he heard one man murmur at some point, being somewhere next to him at the railings on one side of the ship. 

Who he was, Farrier didn't know; he never bothered to look.  He heard another man respond to that.

"An' what do you mean by that?"

"You don't see it?" the first man asked, incredulously, and when he pointed towards something in the distance Farrier looked up, following with his eyes and spotting familiar shoreline.  "Just look at it!  There it is... _home_."

 _Collins_ , Farrier thought to himself, composing within his mind yet another letter to the love he hoped to one day again find.  _Jim._

He imagined writing the date in the top corner of the stationery he'd write his words on.  The year was now 1945. 

 _I hope you still wait for me_ , he thought.  It was five years since he'd been captured.  Collins would be, then, twenty-six.  Somehow that sounded more youthful than his present thirty-three years of age.  The gap between them seemed much closer when they had, at some point, briefly overlapped in their twenties and were both sharing the same decade.  There seemed to be so much standing in the way of potential happiness, the more he brooded over it.  _Should you be, know that I am coming to find you._

He unconsciously gripped at part of the section of rails before him in anticipation, as the vessel he was on continued to draw closer to land.  The man was right, Farrier thought to himself.  He truly could see home from where he stood; he could, likewise, almost see Collins.

 _I hope that you made it home safely, my love_ , he thought, imagining the strokes of pen to paper as he concluded his letter.  _Won't be much longer now, Jim.  I wish to be with you again soon._

* * *

Or so he'd thought.  First, there had been a little bit of an administrative detour.  Though Farrier knew and understood the sentiments of his homeland's government, hell, the nation—he couldn't help feeling rather impatient about the process.  They tried to hail him a hero.

 _"I was just doing my job,"_ he'd said, putting it rather blunt, as was his nature.

His seemingly humble demeanor, coupled with his accomplishments in flight during the war, and his rather miraculous story of numerous escape attempts and survival made him a riveting sensational story for the media, who wished to feast upon him.  Farrier tried to politely refuse.  Somewhere in the midst of being pushed along and pushing back against the media, Farrier was discharged and given the highest honors.  The Victoria Cross, a fitting thing for a man known to all who knew him as The King's Ace. 

In the end, he had to offer a settlement of sorts with the press.  Perhaps if he could be given some time, to settle back into life and get back in touch with people—particularly, _someone_ —whom he hoped was still waiting, despite it having been just so many years since they'd last seen one another, that Farrier might be so inclined to offer them these so-called inspirational and uplifting stories that they so much clamored for.  The media was reluctant, but he'd gotten them to agree.

When questioned one last time, just before setting off, the simplest question of where it was he was off to in such a hurry, Farrier gave only one line simply in reply.  _"I've got somewhere to be."_

Perhaps as consequence, this line was one that the traditional news outlets went wild with for a while, having grasped at straws and wanting to give the people something to look forward to.  The tabloids, of course, went and took things a step further, sensationalizing the quote and construing it to mean that there was a woman being sought after—his reason to come back home to.  Irony, perhaps, in the degree to which they were wrong.

Had Farrier known just what the state was, that Collins was in, and the circumstances surrounding how he'd gotten to that point, then perhaps he might have actually changed his mind and taken advantage of the media's reach.  Perhaps he would have used them as a means to send word out, ahead of his arrival to Collins; maybe even make it easier for the two men to find each other.

Instead, Farrier went, in a bit of a roundabout way with his search, asking first about where he might find the owner of those ships that had saved those men on Dunkirk would have docked back in 1940, or at least some military records who could shed some light as to that whole ordeal from that time.  Speaking with members of the ranks, former colleagues, and even a few locals at some pub downtown in London, Farrier had garnered few concrete answers.  What few leads he had, however, he chased.

One brought him to the Dawson's door.  Mr. Dawson happened to be out at the time and Peter, his son, now a bit taller and aged nineteen—the same age Collins had been when Farrier had first met him, was the one who had answered his knocks.  Blinking, the young man looked at him confused, just as much as Farrier had glanced at the boy once, too quickly, and nearly mistook him to be the one he was searching for.  He realized quickly his mistake, however, for aside from perhaps what he recalled of the other man's build and most certainly his golden locks, in terms of facial features the two looked absolutely nothing alike, and Farrier internally berated himself for making such an error.

"Can I help you?" the young man asked, so obviously perplexed. 

"There was a rumor I heard," Farrier said, not wanting to risk the door being slammed in his face, and getting straight to the point.  "About a pilot that stayed here, perhaps for a time—I couldn't really get any specific details on just how long.  Tall?  Blonde?  Perhaps been fished out of the water?  I know that the last I saw of him, he'd landed his plane straight into the sea waters near Dunkirk."

It seemed to take the younger man a moment, but then suddenly, his blue eyes rounded.  "You're the one...!" he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it.  "That man was waiting for...what was his name again—?"

"Collins," Farrier said softly, his body suddenly thrumming at the thought of the other man having waited for him.  "James Earl Collins."

" _Collins_ —right!" the young man said, nodding.  "Me father and I pulled him out from his aircraft—blasted thing had jammed."

Farrier's heart dropped to hear _that_.  Glad as he was at the notion that Collins was most likely alive, Farrier now played back the memory of the blonde pilot waving his arm from down below, not realizing that it hadn't been a gesture of goodwill and more of one in distress.  It could have been the man's last moments that Farrier had witnessed that day, and the very thought of that made him sick, even if he was comforted by the fact knowing that the other man had at least survived that, for certain. 

Peter's words brought him back into the present.  "He waited here, you know.  Waited at the pier until the crowd thinned out, at first.  Most of the men had gone home and was still standing there, until my father had him come home with us.  We gave him my brother's old room to sleep in.  My brother, he died in the war you know, and I'm sure he wouldn't have minded sharing with him regardless, even if he was still here," the younger man said, recounting the events the way that he had recalled that they happened.  "Went back and forth for a while, he did, never really speaking to us much, but we always knew that he was grateful for the space to kick up his feet."

Farrier nodded, shoulders dropping a little in disappointment.  "The way you speak of him...I take it he no longer stays with you then," he said, though he would have supposed that it would have been a long shot regardless. 

These people, after all, were not Collins' family, and eventually, the blonde pilot would have come to his senses and remembered that he would have to report back to base.  He would have been lucky that due to the chaos of the times, no one would likely have been actively searching for him.  Had he chosen then to uncharacteristically desert, the military might have easily written him off as either missing in action or as a POW before they'd assume him as anything else. 

The young man before him nodded, offering Farrier a look of apology.  "Yes, sir," he said.  "That's correct.  One day he went out and never returned again, although..."

Seeming to remember something, the man turned around and went disappeared momentarily from Farrier's view.  When he returned, it was with a ripped open envelope in his hand.

"My father and I did happen to receive this in the post, a few years later," Peter said, before shaking his head.  "I can't confirm if this is still that man's address, or how he's doing, since this is the only correspondence we've ever received from him, but..."

"Thank you," Farrier said warmly, and perhaps his eyes were a little misty, but neither made any comment on that. 

Peter nodded.  "You can keep that, you know," he said, motioning to the letter and the envelope.  "Perhaps it might be helpful."

Farrier's grip tightened slightly on the letter.  He nodded.

"It would," he said tightly.  "I...thank you.  Just...thank you."

The younger man nodded in understanding.  "Best of luck to you then," he said.  "Please send our regards, if you do manage to find him."

"I will," Farrier said, now preparing to set off again.  He held up the letter, which he still had yet to examine.  "Again...thank you."

He turned on his heels before the other man could say anything else, and was long gone by the time Peter's father had returned back home, having been on a fishing trip.  It was how they made their living, since the war was now over. 

"The strangest thing, today, Dad," Peter said, helping Mr. Dawson with some of his haul and bringing it inside of their house.

"Hm?" Mr. Dawson asked.  "Now what d'you mean by that, son?"

"Do you remember that pilot?" Peter asked.  "The one we pulled from the water that day?"

His father grunted in acknowledgement and nodded.  "Dunkirk?"

"Aye, that very one," said Peter.  "He'd been waiting for his mate on the pier."

"Right," his father said.  "Another one come from him, then?"

He'd meant a letter.  Peter shook his head.

"No, but you wouldn't believe who was at the door this morning, though," he said, and his father stopped to look at him.  "It was the man he was waiting on!  Can you believe it?  It's been at least four or five years since that time..."

Mr. Dawson's brows raised on his forehead in surprise.  Peter rubbed at the back of his neck, expression somewhat sheepish.

"I told him we couldn't be sure of his address, but I sent that one letter we'd received off with him," he said.

Mr. Dawson took a moment to process this information, then smiled.  "You did good, Pete," he said gruffly with a nod.  "You did real well.  Now, come and help me with shellin' a few of these crabs I've brought in."

Peter smiled and gave his father a mock salute.  "Aye, aye, Cap'n!"

* * *

Fortunately for Farrier, the brokenhearted Collins had settled into the home he'd purchased within the past year or so, not too far away from his family, but far enough into the countryside for a great deal of privacy and seclusion.  The local town folk spoke highly of the man, and although Collins apparently liked to make himself scarce, Farrier was pleased to hear that he still immersed himself into society from time to time, for things like his sister's weddings and allowing family to come visit him on his farmland.  It was the type of arrangement that he and Farrier had always spoken of, when they'd had a chance to discuss their possible future together, how they'd buy a house someplace where they could be discreet and away from prying eyes and ears, eager for gossip.  Farrier looked forward to seeing him, and quietly hoped that no one else might have taken up with Collins there.

Despite their wartime traumas, Collins apparently hadn't lost his love of planes or for flying, for that matter.  The first thing that Farrier noticed, upon approaching the estate, was the unmistakable sight of a civilian aircraft, parked outside of a fairly well-sized barn on the property.  The other—which Farrier quickly realized should have been the first thing he noticed, and immediately berated himself for it—was the sight of someone who looked no doubt familiar, performing some maintenance on said aircraft.

And it was as if the other sensed him, even though Farrier had yet to park the car he had rented for this particular excursion, and step out of it.  Or perhaps he had heard the sounds, of Farrier's rickety little rental car.  Perhaps he just simply didn't receive all that many visitors.

Regardless, the look on his face, once Farrier was close enough to see it, told the man everything he ever needed to know.  _Yes_ , the other man had never stopped waiting for him, and _no_ , there had never been and nor would there ever be anyone else for him.  At least, not in this lifetime.  This was meant to be their go round. 

At first, Collins stood there, frozen, looking as if he were seeing a ghost.  Farrier noted that the man had a bit more of a weathered look to him since the last time he'd seen him, but other than that, no real worse for wear.  It made Farrier feel for the briefest moments just a little self-conscious; he knew he was no longer the man he'd been from their memories.  He was thinner now; the camps had seemed to age him more than his naturally dictated years. 

These insecurities, however, were quickly whisked away like a wind when the other man suddenly charged towards him.  Farrier braced himself, one foot placed slightly further back as he spread wide his arms, ready to accept the blonde man into them, though at the same time unsure as to whether he might be able to withstand a level of embrace that wouldn't have come close in knocking him back from the sheer force of it, not when he had been a much stronger man back in those early days.  Back in that time that had been before the war.  Before everything.

Soon he had in his arms a bundle full of blonde, and Farrier seriously felt the overwhelming urge to finally just _weep_.  He had so many things he wanted to say to this younger man; had so many _questions_ , for him.  It had taken just a little over five years, a few months, and who really knew just how many days since he'd last seen this man he was holding.  And yet, the only thing that kept on playing over and over in his mind, was how now he could finally say that _he was home, he was home, he was home_.

* * *

Collins didn't know what it was.  He hadn't flown all that much, since the war, but he'd been unable to let his occasional need for flying completely go.  His family hadn't really understood it.  His father, in fact, thought that when Collins had decided to purchase a civilian aircraft for himself, that perhaps it wasn't the best investment.  A few wondered if perhaps flight would only bring about unwanted systems related to PTSD, as Collins was known to experience those nightmares where he kept calling out for _Farrier, Farrier, no, don't just keep on.  Jump out.  Use your chute, Farrier_.  He'd gone through with the purchase, though, Collins did, and he did manage to fly it sometimes.  Never with an incident, much to everyone's relief, especially his own.

As Farrier had rightfully guessed, there had been a day where, while Collins was still in hopes of someday reuniting with the other man on the docks, he'd still eventually come to his senses.  Ironically, it had been Farrier's voice he'd remembered hearing, telling him that now was not the time to despair, that he'd actually rather spent quite enough time by then despairing, and that he needed to report back to someone, _anyone_ superior and let him know of his status.  Perhaps even await new orders, if they tried to assess him and found that he was still fit to fly. 

Someone did assess him, but they ended up keeping him grounded, figuring that he'd seen enough, after confirming himself as only one of three fliers who had gone and made it back from that awful time in Dunkirk.  Within weeks, he was discharged honorably and reunited with his family, who rejoiced.  Shortly after that, Collins no longer felt quite at home under his parent's roof—they were good people and all that, they just didn't _understand_ —and with his father's help, he'd gotten set up in the countryside a reasonable distance away from his original hometown.  Roughly a year later was when he'd decided upon purchasing his civilian aircraft, and then he spent maybe a total of nine or ten hours or so at most annually, scattered over the span of a few random days each year.  Mere cents compared to the airtime he'd spent whilst deployed. 

On this particular day, he hadn't intended to fly.  Rather, he needed something to help him get over the intense flashbacks he was experiencing that day, all pertaining to his loss of one William Fitzhugh Farrier.  The King's Ace, but he'd truly been the aerial King of the Skies.

So to cope with the resurfacing of his grief, which he'd often tried to drown away with other things.  Music, for one.  Sometimes he'd try picking up a book or two, though he'd never finished a one of them.  It was interesting how the things that had once comforted him in his youth, in a time before the war, gave him little comfort at all now that he'd come out of it.  So much it was for, all those things of nostalgia.

The one thing that did seem to work, however, was the one thing he'd been expected to want to run most away from.  That day, Collins set to work on his plane in the way he always did, when he wanted to effectively keep himself distracted.  He'd thought himself completely immersed.  Then he heard the car.

Collins didn't know what it was that had compelled him to turn around.  He would later describe it to Farrier, as they were laid up in post-coital bliss on the younger man's bed inside the home, that it was like feeling an electric current.  Something he hadn't felt in such a long time.   _Years_ , in fact.  There had only been one such man to do that, and yet here it was again, that feeling.  Pulling him around; compelling him to look.

The first thing Collins had noticed was someone pulling up to the mouth of his driveway in what looked like a beat-up, black rental car.  He remembered his posture going rigid after the man inside had pulled as close as he could to the house, and then step out of it.  The man was thinner, perhaps looking a bit more worn than he used to be, and even appeared to have a bit of a limp, as he took several steps close, but Collins knew without a shred of doubt in his being that he recognized this man.  He'd recognize this man from anywhere; no matter how he'd changed, no matter how many years might have passed. 

At first, Collins had stood right where he was, dumbfounded.  The man had to be a ghost, he reasoned.  _But would a ghost limp_ , he wondered.  No, no, perhaps not.  For all his recurring nightmares, Collins wouldn't have willfully imagined something so terrible for a man who was undoubtedly his soulmate, lover, and a friend. 

He started off walking at first, but then, at some point, he'd broken out into a run.  He saw the man brace himself for impact, still able to read his subtle movements the same way he'd done all those years ago—from technical training with paint pellets, to fighting with real bullets flying by them, through them, and sometimes even whizzing just over their heads.  He slowed just enough to be sure that he wouldn't accidentally bowl the older man over.  Immediately, Collins buried his face in the other man's chest and for all the things he wanted to say to the man, all he could think was _he was safe, he was safe, his darling Farrier was safe_.  And _oh_ , what a _jolly good thing_ it was, that the man he'd been waiting for, would have waited for forever, in fact, was now finally _home_.  With him.  In his arms.  He was _real_.

Collins didn't know how long it was that they stood there, quietly, reveling in the feel of their bodies, at long last once again entwined together.  A silent promise set between them to pick up just where they'd left things off; resume the plan where they'd live in some place somewhere far away from the prying and at times cruel eyes of society, aiming for a way to be free to love each other without fear and without judgment. 

Eventually, Collins gathered his nerve and lifted his head.  Teary blue-green eyes met equally misty ones of a similar shade.  Fingers, shaking, seemed to communicate the younger man's current state of disbelief as they trembled against portions of the older man's face, cupping around them as their lips drew closer, until they were almost touching.  Reminding each of them of how many times they'd been like this before, together, this close to one another, lips brushing against each other.  Memory of a time where declarations of love had felt seemingly unnecessary in a relationship where actions just spoke so much louder, ever more clearly between them than mere words ever could.  Though, of course, there was a first time for anything, really. 

Collins was the first one to break the silence this time, and it was with one word.  A name.  Whispered.

_"Hugh..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Important Update, August 8th:** O-M-G. I want to smack my head into a tree!! 
> 
> First off, thank you SO MUCH to those who helped retroactively beta read this fic, in terms of fact-checking. I have made corrections, both historical and cultural, thanks to these close readers. Constructive criticism—when done respectfully and right—is GOLD, in my opinion. So a million times, _thank you_.
> 
> Second, I have to confess, I fudged something with my math early on, because I had been writing this thing in one sitting and stream-of-consciousness, almost. So I really messed up some numbers with the ages between the men, since I kept flipping back and forth with it. To make it work, I had to completely rework certain portions of this fic, but hopefully the whole essence of it has not entirely been lost. Many apologies to all those who liked the fic, but didn't notice it before. I personally hate it when I catch these things in my own writing, so I had to go back and fix it. I'm so embarrassed. GAH. This is totally what I get for posting directly onto AO3 and not on a word processor first and ruminating over it for days and days and days before finally releasing it into the world. Smh. So sorry about all that, guys, and thank you for loving this fic anyway, despite all imperfections~ I feel it, y'all. The love is real. <3


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